Some call it pomegranate
Others Indian apple
Mother calls it rumman
She slices it into halves
and serves it as though it’s lamb,
on a large silver tray with a floral design
The children, chin within the tray’s circle, bite the fruit
Crimson juice drips on the metal, tablecloth,
one’s blouse, pajama sleeve, nightgown’s ruffle.
Individual bits fall and get scooped
Hair strands are removed, curled around the ear while
beneath the chandelier, thin and full lips crunch and chew
When all that’s left are shells and peels,
red stained hands reach for soap and water.
Everyone then lies on the rug, heel to heel
They say hmmm, how good that was
point out who was messy, greedy,
complain that the boy’s portions had more seeds, were extra juicy
Hands inside the pockets of her summer dress,
mother lies, “to me, boy or girl – makes no difference”
With a smile, she walks away to her recess
